Differences
by Vixen of Light
Summary: PG for very light swearing and practically nonexistant femmeslash hints. Pansy finds Hermione isn't so different from her after all.


A/n: I was actually trying to write Pansy/Hermione. Didn't work and this came out. Oh well! Pansy is interesting and while I can't see her liking people, I think its more that she dislikes everyone non-Slytherin rather than the fact that they're Muggle born. I'm also rather pro-Slytherin. shrugs  
  
Takes place sixth year, perhaps.  
  
-  
  
When Pansy's summer job, accrued by her parents' connections, landed her in the Muggle Worthy Excuse Department, she was not pleased.  
  
"I won't work on anything for a filthy Muggle," she told her parents darkly, and marched into the Ministry of Magic to appeal.  
  
"I am sorry," a thin, shrill young witch lied to her on the reception. "That's the department where we need help."  
  
I'll bet, thought Pansy bitterly, but she grit her teeth, because she needed the job experience, and turned up on her first day beneath pale pink robes and a smile that showed only slightly as fake.  
  
It amazed her what Muggles would swallow. She wondered if those Mudblood witches and wizards made up such stupid excuses for things and if it made them feel as contemptuous as she did then. It crossed her mind, what Granger would think.  
  
There was a mirror next to her desk, and Pansy took a pause from work to look into it. "Very professional," the mirror told her of her appearance, but Pansy ignored it and looked deeper into her own eyes. She didn't even like pink all that much, but wasn't some Muggle quote – "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it?" she remembered that, from Muggle Studies. An elective, but morbid curiosity had driven her to take it. "Know thy enemy," she had smirked to the class and her surprised housemates, who had swallowed this. Maybe accepting bad excuses was universal.  
  
In the mirror the pink robes floated over the figure of any young witch, but when Pansy reached her face, her long tanned face, dark eyes glittering, it was the face of a Slytherin. I'm not beautiful, Pansy thought, but that's OK, because that doesn't really matter.  
  
At lunch she took off her outer robes to the smart skirt and blouse beneath and took a walk far from the office into the Muggle city beyond. Cars rushed past her and she turned to swear at one that had threatened to knock her down. Bloody Muggles. Her lip curled as she walked on.  
  
"Excuse me, dear. . .?" the voice made her turn to see an old Muggle woman, balancing a large package with one arm and a...what were they called, those two wheeled things. . .bicks? with the other.  
  
Pansy raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Would you be able to help me across the road?" the woman looked up at Pansy's face and right into her eyes.  
  
The word 'no' hovered on Pansy's lips and she was astounded when what she actually said was "No problem." And she helped the woman carry the package and steer the. . .bick. . .and was thanked for her trouble, told she was an angel and wished a good day. Pansy crossed the road back again and stood, wondering.  
  
So she walked on into town and found herself actually looking at Muggle things, minus some of the contempt and with almost admiration. She studied Muggles' faces as they walked past her, thinking that you couldn't tell she was magical, that she and the Muggles looked like...members of the same race. She looked at the little details, at signs on windows offering cleaning, at dropped pennies ("Muggle money?" She had scoffed to someone once. "What, those chunks of alloys and worthless metals? Not even gold!"), at greasy takeaway restaurants, and thought hard.  
  
She passed a large shop, clothes in the window on plastic models of young girls bent into unlikely poses. For one day, perhaps she could pretend. She entered the shop. It seemed almost natural.  
  
Blaring music and harsh lights assaulted her senses, but they seemed right. Pansy strolled about, looking at lace and cotton and oddly-cut tops, ignored a display of pink clothes and instead picked up a black and red blouse, a white trimmed skirt, and looked around for somewhere to try them on. A neon sign flashed haphazardly at the edge of her sight, and she followed it.  
  
The changing room was cramped. She was used to massive magically expanded quarters, but this was tiny and hot and filled with the faint scent of female skin and synthetic perfume. Pansy pushed experimentally on the walls to no avail. Faint pity swelled in her, followed by pride and familiar superiority – Muggles had nothing compared to her. She pulled off her clothes and tried on the Muggle ones. She looked up to the mirror.  
  
The girl looking back was no longer Pansy, that was sure. She looked more carefree, somehow, the colours flattering to her, her eyes were no longer so mocking but more innocent. She pushed back the curtain to stand in the hall, getting a better look.  
  
Someone bumped her from behind.  
  
"Sorry," died on Pansy's lips as she turned around to see familiar, insufferable brown eyes looking at her in amazement.  
  
"Pansy?" said Hermione Granger incredulously, looking at her with head tilted, her arms full of clothes which she nearly dropped.  
  
"Parkinson to you, Mudblood," Pansy snapped, mind racing. She looked darkly at Herm- at Granger, studying her with the intensity that she had the earlier Muggles. They didn't seem so different that day.  
  
"What are you doing here?" the other girl asked, studying Pansy right back. She had nice lips, though Pansy, wondering why exactly that had crossed her mind. Very full. Pansy's own lips were thin and often pursed.  
  
"Field research," Pansy snapped glibly. "Working in some stupid Muggle department for the summer." She searched her memories. "And mind your manners, Mudblood. I didn't ask you that when I saw you sneaking about in the library after hours. Would have thought someone would like to hear that..."  
  
Hermione's warm eyes widened for just a moment, but it was enough. Pansy smirked at her, and they stood for an awkward moment. So, we share secrets now, her and me. How very. . .  
  
"Hermione?" called a woman from the other end of the hall. Both girls looked to see a tall, dark woman, Mrs Granger, the one who earned her living by putting her hands in peoples' mouths, waving at Hermione and walking up to them. She smiled at Pansy.  
  
"Friend from school?" she asked. Pansy paused, then nodded on some spur of the moment. Hermione was watching her, giving Pansy a good view of her profile and her wild hair.  
  
"Nice to meet you," the woman said, then turned to Hermione. "We have to go on, I'm afraid. Your friend could come for lunch with us if you like. . .?"  
  
"That's OK," said Pansy quickly. "I've a lot to do," She felt strangely regretful.  
  
"Another time," offered Mrs Granger, taking some of the clothes from her daughter's arms. Pansy smiled noncommittally as the woman walked off. Hermione raised her hand cautiously to saw goodbye, then looked back.  
  
"You should buy the blouse," she said quietly. "It suits you." She rifled in her pockets to hand Pansy a ten pound note.  
  
"I'm not a charity case," Pansy hissed, thrusting it back.  
  
"I know," said Hermione. "But Galleons won't pay for it in this shop. Pay me back when term starts." A faint, oddly knowing smile hovered over her lips. "If you can face talking to a Gryffindor for once." She turned and walked briskly off before Pansy could reply.  
  
The Slytherin looked down at the note in her hand. Charles Darwin looked silently back at her from the printing. She hurried to change.  
  
As she joined the queue and handed Hermione's money over to the till assistant, she knew the Gryffindor was watching her from the shop door. Fine. Perhaps she could explain it to Hermione – if she could cope with talking to a Slytherin. 


End file.
